The Consequences of Overprotectiveness and Insecurity
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Or arguments and making up. After John comes home all Sherlock can see is him lying small and wounded on a hospital bed. Honey 'Verse Rating for language and sexual mentions. Last chapter is SMUT. BOY ON BOY. Warning.
1. Argument

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Darn it!**

**A/N: This story takes place immediately after Sherlock rescues John and Sarah in The Blind Banker.**

"You are angry," Sherlock observed as they entered their flat at 221B Baker St. Sherlock rubbed at his sore throat and eyed his husband warily.

"Yes," John bit out, though he gently pulled Sherlock's hand away from his throat and inspected the damage from that Chinese smuggler/assassin strangling him. He'd be fine, John decided, though his throat would hurt for a day or two. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I mean really I thought I'd hid it so well."

"But…" Sherlock hesitated; he really didn't understand how John's touch could be so gentle when the fire in his eyes was so intense and angry. He had never been able to understand the dichotomies that made up his husband. John always surprised him. Even after having known him his whole life. "I don't understand, John. Why? Why are you angry with me?"

John let out a sigh, closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. He should know after a lifetime of being with Sherlock exactly how to deal with him but maybe those nearly twenty years in the army had messed up his Sherlock sense more than he'd thought. "Of course you don't. Of course you bloody don't understand why I could possibly be angry with you. Why did I expect you to understand? It's silly human sentiment, Sherlock. Not something you've ever cared about." His tone, so frustrated and angry in the beginning, had become tinged with bitterness and hurt.

Sherlock took a step back, unaccountably stung by this comment, and the tone it had been delivered in. "John…" he didn't know what he wanted to say. Sherlock hated when John was angry like this. It only happened rarely but when it did it made his chest hurt and he could barely breathe. "I'm sorry? I don't know why you're angry but I'll fix it, if you'll only tell me what I did wrong."

John turned away from him, heading into the kitchen. Sherlock watched from the door as John put the kettle on and rubbed at his temples again. Was John's headache a result of the blow to the head or was it because of him?

"Right. Sit down, Sherlock. This is going to take a little while." John heard Sherlock sit at the table behind him. He finished the tea and sat down across from his husband handing one cup to him. He took a sip to steel his courage and stared down into the milky brown depths. "First off," he paused, afraid of the answer to this question. "Are you ashamed of being married to me?" He didn't take his eyes off of his tea. He didn't want to see the expression on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock spluttered his tea all over the table. "What?" He practically shouted. "Where on Earth would you get such a ridiculous idea?"

"Sebastian Wilkes," John replied still staring at his tea. He knew that his voice was quiet, too quiet to give the illusion of disinterest that he'd wanted to.

"What does he have to do with anything? He's an idiot!" Sherlock's voice was loud enough for both of them anyway.

"And so am I, if you'll remember," John drew a deep breath trying to control his anger. The anger was better than the utter desolation that was under it though. "You've only been calling me that every time I turn around since the Pink case."

"No, I haven't." Sherlock denied and then flushed at John's raised brow. "Well, I know that you aren't an idiot. You're my husband." Sherlock sounded petulant. Had he really been calling John an idiot that much? Surely John knew that he didn't mean it. It was just a word that seemed to roll off of his tongue when he was frustrated with other people. John didn't frustrate him in the same way but maybe he hadn't really been paying attention to the words he was saying. He hadn't had to think about it before. Before John came home. Before John nearly…he stopped that thought before it could form.

"Yes." John acknowledged. "But I've been gone off and on for the entire time we've been married, Sherlock. It is entirely possible that during that time you've lost a bit of your…respect for me." Dear God, he wouldn't say love. He didn't want to know if Sherlock had stopped loving him. He more than half thought that would burn him more than getting shot had. "I would understand. I love you, Sherlock, but I know I'm nowhere near as intelligent as you. And the fact that you still haven't given me a straight answer about my question rather does give me that answer doesn't it?" John closed his eyes, sorrow filling him. He had known, _known_, that everything had changed. Sherlock didn't want him around anymore. Not where people could see him anyway.

"I am NOT ashamed to be married to you!" Sherlock stood and slammed his hands down on the table. "That's the most idiotic, ridiculous notion that has ever come out of your mouth, John Hamish Watson-_Holmes_! And that includes the time you wanted a penguin for a pet and wanted it to sleep in your bed with you."

John couldn't help the smile that took over his mouth at the memory. "I was nine, Sherlock." Then he frowned again. "And if you aren't ashamed of me then why did you tell Sebastian Wilkes we were friends?"

Sherlock collapsed back into his chair, stunned by the question. How could John not know? "I…he's not the most…er, polite of people, John. I did not want him to…insult you for loving me. He was an arse in university and he's only become worse with age."

John finally raised his eyes from his mug but he still avoided Sherlock's. He didn't think he could say all he needed to say if he looked into eyes that he knew would be grey and filled with scorn or pain. "All right, I could understand that if Anderson didn't know you were married to me. He insults me on a regular basis."

"Anderson's different," Sherlock insisted. "He only knows because he's at the crime scenes. He's an irritant only. Wilkes is powerful. Granted anything he tried Mycroft would stop in minutes but still, I'd rather neither of us had to deal with that." Sherlock paused and stared at his husband's averted eyes. "I would shout my love for you at the top of my lungs if you wished."

John felt a weight lift off of his chest that he hadn't known was there. Sherlock's love or lack of love wasn't the real issue bothering him though. He knew down to the depths of his soul that Sherlock loved him and always would. Sometimes though love wasn't enough, no matter what the songs and poems and stories said. "All right." He nodded, conceding that point. "So you're not ashamed of people knowing you're married to me but you don't trust me anymore, do you? You don't trust that I'll have your back."

Sherlock glared at him, though John didn't see it as he was looking everywhere but at Sherlock. "What? Of course I trust you!"

"No," John shook his head, suddenly adamant and angry again. "You don't. You ran off on me from the Pink Case. Twice. You hid the fact that an assassin tried to kill you, here in our flat, from me. You went into Soo Lin's flat without me and didn't tell me about the assassin that tried to strangle you until later. You left Soo Lin and me at the museum to go off after a killer by yourself. You think I'm a hindrance when it comes down to the dangerous stuff. You used to drag me along with you and never thought twice about the danger so long as I was with you. Now, as soon as the situation becomes even slightly dangerous you run off and leave me behind." The fury in his voice was cold, ice cold.

Silence filled the kitchen as Sherlock processed this and remembered each incident. "I do trust you, John," he finally whispered, aching because he knew what John meant. He hadn't meant to make John feel this way but he couldn't stop. He had to keep John safe. "But I can't stop seeing you in that hospital bed. No one told me but I knew as soon as I saw you that…your heart stopped at least once, John. I know it did. I told Lestrade the night the army brought me news of your injury that I didn't believe that I could exist in a world without you. I know now that I can't."

John finally, finally looked into his husband's grey eyes. "Sherlock," he sighed out. "I know that I'm not the man you married."

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted cutting John off. "This isn't about you! You're exactly the man I married and I can't lose you! Not again! If I can prevent you from ever getting hurt again I will!" Sherlock leapt from the table and slammed the door as he left the room and the flat. He couldn't stay there or he'd say something he'd regret and then John would leave him for good. It was inevitable. He wasn't the same man John had married either. He'd lost his empathy for other people. He didn't like other people, he knew that he never really had but he had tolerated them better when he was younger. Now, he only really liked the Lestrade's and John.

"Well," John told the tea mug as the slamming of the door echoed around the now empty flat. "That went well." Tea dripping from the table to the floor was his only answer.


	2. Revelations

**Disclaimer: Not mine. At this point in the story I wouldn't want them anyway. They're both being stupid.**

**A/N: Once again I would like to use this opportunity to reiterate that I am not British or Scottish and though I'm half Irish I was born in the U.S. I can fake the accents…sort of and I've picked up a fair bit of slang because I read a lot. Anyway the point is: I'm not British. Please excuse any cultural mistakes I may make because of this. If I do and you leave me a review pointing it out I'll adore you forever. That said: On with the story.**

"Hello, Sherlock," Joanne Lestrade greeted as she opened the door to her husband's unofficial little brother. It wasn't dark yet so she could clearly see the disturbance in his grey eyes. Anyone who didn't know him as well as she did would never notice it. Something had happened, again. She had a very good idea what it was as Greg had texted her that he was joining John at the pub less than ten minutes before Sherlock had rung the bell.

"Joanne," he nodded in greeting though his voice sounded the slightest bit rough. "Are Lestrade or the children in?"

Joanne moved to the side and motioned him inside the house. She could tell just by the tense set of his shoulders exactly how wrong this situation was. "No, do you want to wait for them?"

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls bouncing and sending small droplets of water from the slight rain flying, and strode into the parlour, confident of his welcome. "It's you I wanted to speak with."

"Oh?" She inquired as she followed him.

Sherlock basically collapsed onto the couch and looked up at her with grey eyes that were nearly as stricken as they were That Night. "I've done something to upset John and I don't know how to make it better."

Joanne sighed mentally in relief. She'd known that John would eventually get fed up with Sherlock's overbearing attitude. "I knew this was coming," Joanne said as she took a seat across from him in Greg's favored armchair.

"What?" Sherlock asked, completely shocked by someone other than John for the first time in his life. "You don't even know what the problem is."

Joanne gave a small huff of laughter, amused to have shocked the great Sherlock Holmes so badly. "I do," she answered. "You're being overprotective and he isn't taking it well."

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked truly surprised that Joanne had figured out John's real problem when it had taken him hours of traipsing around London in the rain, thinking, to figure it out.

"Sherlock dearest, it's been obvious ever since he came home." She told him gently and took one of his hands in hers. "And I've been through this kind of thing with Greg."

"You have?"

She nodded a bit sadly. "Do you remember when he was stabbed last year?" That incident still visited her nightmares.

"Yes." Sherlock wished he didn't but it was one of those incidents that completely resisted deletion.

"I nearly forced him to quit his job, texted him or called him at least five times an hour when he wasn't home, and generally made a nuisance of myself. Greg didn't take it any better than I bet John is. They're both very independent men. And you are being a nuisance yourself, dearest." She patted his hand again. She jumped and let go of his hand for a moment when her phone beeped in her pocket. She checked the text and then shook her head.

"I still don't understand." Sherlock sighed, not paying any attention to Joanne or the phone. He was deep in thought; independent as John and Lestrade were they still caved to Sherlock and Joanne on an almost alarming basis. "How is keeping him safe being a nuisance?"

Joanne took up his hand again. "Now I'm only guessing but I'd say I'm very close to the truth here. He thinks you don't trust him anymore. He's feeling useless, Sherlock. John needs to be needed and you've taken that from him."

Sherlock frowned. How had he missed something so obvious? He knew everything about John, always had. He knew John liked being useful. Had he really been that blind and that selfish? "I didn't mean too. I just can't seem to stop seeing him injured and nearly de…de…Christ! I can't even say the word in relation to him." He buried his face in his free hand. John would never forgive him for this but he couldn't stop. John had to be safe.

Joanne nodded. "I know." And she did, he knew she did know. She loved her husband just as much as he loved his own. Lestrade and Joanne were one of the few couples he'd ever met who genuinely adored each other.

"What do I do, Joanne? He's going to leave me." John wouldn't live in a relationship that was so uneven. He couldn't and so Sherlock knew that he was going to leave.

"He's not, not really. But if you don't back off and allow him to help you a part of him will." She patted his hand. "He won't physically leave you, Sherlock, but what will happen is almost worse. Because he loves you he will let you protect him from everything and let that something inside him, the part that is essentially John die. He'll be a ghost of himself. You have to let him be himself. Lord knows, I nearly did the same to Greg. They're brave, our men. Brave and stupid, too. They thrive on the danger, just like you thrive on the puzzle and I thrive on my family." She let Sherlock mull that over before she spoke again. "Tell me something, Sherlock. What if, in an effort to protect him from the danger, he's not with you and one of your enemies takes him?"

Sherlock's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "I hadn't thought about that." He really hadn't. He'd been so consumed with keeping John away from the danger that he hadn't given a thought to that idea. And he really should have. It was while John was off on a walk that General Shan had kidnapped him.

"I thought not," Joanne nodded; Sherlock could be spectacularly ignorant at times, especially when it came to emotions. "So the safest place for John to be is right next to you, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded frantically. Really it was the best idea all around. John could be and feel useful and needed again and Sherlock could keep an eye on him.

Joanne grinned. "Well, you'd best go pick him up then. Greg says he's piss faced drunk down the pub." She rose to her feet and kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "And put my husband in a cab, would you? He's not to steady either if I know him."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock nodded again, eager to tell John of this revelation. "Which pub? Wait, I already know. The one near the Yard."

"Right in one. The White Stag. Off you go then." She saw him out the door with a soft smile. Really, every time they had a spat Sherlock showed up at her door and John ended up with Greg. Maybe she should think about finishing that psychology degree and becoming a marriage counselor at least then she'd get paid for these monthly visits. Joanne shook her head and banished the thought. She was more than happy to be one of the few people Sherlock trusted to ask about these issues, the smile he always gave her was enough payment.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Sh'lock's an arsh, did you know, Greg?" John Watson slurred drunkenly as he noticed his friend standing beside him.

"Course he is, John," Greg Lestrade responded amused. "Has been as long as I've known him." Which was more than half Sherlock's lifetime now, he realized. They'd met when Sherlock was fifteen and he was nearly thirty one now. Amazing.

John fixed him with one blurry hazel eye; he couldn't let even Greg insult Sherlock, no matter how mad he was at his husband. "He didn't ushed to be. He ushed to shmile all the time. He wash fun. He made me laugh. He made me feel good. Now I feel usheless."

"He still smiles all the time," Greg countered. "At least when you're around." He eyed the nearly empty glass in front of John. "How much have you had, John?" Obviously too much. Yet with the way John was talking then also not nearly enough.

John stared at the glass, picked it up, drained it, signaled for another and shrugged. "Doeshn't matter. Not working tonight. Not working tomorrow or any other day. The clinic, Sharah fired me. Knew she would. Shtupid Sh'lock and hish shtupid Shinishe shmugglers. The clinic doeshn't need me. The army doeshn't need me. Sh'lock doeshn't need me. Nobody needsh me, Greg. I'm a usheless, washed up, cripple."

"What'd he do?" Greg sighed and sat on the stool next to his inebriated friend.

"Nothin'. Sh'lock didn't do nothin', 'cept run off and leave me every time I turned around. Jusht up and ran off chashing criminalsh. Likesh them better'n he doesh me, he doesh."

"John, I think you've had more than enough to drink tonight," Greg said and took the glass from in front of John. "You're talking crazy."

"Ish not crazy," John objected. "He doeshn't want me around anymore. He ushed to drag me everywhere with him. Now he keepsh leaving me behind."

Greg rolled his eyes, pushed the lager to the side away from John and texted Joanne to send Sherlock to come pick up his husband. "You two need to have a talk."

"Tried that," John let his head rest against the bar. "He walked out, shlammed out, really. Doeshn't want to talk to me. Doeshn't trusht me, now."

Greg felt his eyes widen. "Of course he does. He knows you love him."

"Not what I mean, idiot," John growled. "He thinksh I'll shlow him down with the Work." The last two words were filled with an aching bitterness.

Greg nearly sighed in relief, glad it wasn't something more serious. Though he knew that this was serious it could be fixed a lot easier than Sherlock believing that John didn't love him anymore. He knew better than to try to argue with John in this mood and this level of drunkenness. John usually didn't drink more than a lager in an evening but Greg had seen him this drunk only one other time, the night after a major accident where two five year old girls had died. John had been pulling a shift at the A&E during his residency and had done everything he could for the twin girls but in the end had lost them both. Greg and John had left from the hospital immediately after his shift and gotten drunk as lords. Sherlock and Joanne had been forced to come pick them up and put them both back together again.

He grabbed John's arm and pulled him from the stool. "C'mon John, let's go get some air."

"I don't want air," John grumbled and struggled a little before giving in and letting Greg lead him from the pub. "I want to go back and not get shot."

"Don't we all?" Greg muttered under his breath.

"If I'd not got shot then Sh'lock would shtill trusht me to watch hish back, wouldn't he? He'd let me help again. And I wouldn't be usheless." John was rambling now but Greg listened and leaned him up against the wall outside of the pub to wait for Sherlock to come pick up his husband and fix this mess.

"What're we doin' out here, Greg? It'sh cold. I wanna go back inshide and drink til I can't remember why Sh'lock doeshn't want me." John whined.

"I do want you," came the confused voice from a shadow heading towards them, but John didn't hear him as he'd gone back to his mumbling rant.

"Sherlock," Greg greeted the younger man in a voice tinged with relief and regret.

"He'sh an arshe," John muttered. "Did you call him, Greg? Doeshn't matter, he won't come. Doeshn't care. Probably found a corpshe to play with. Rather be with the dead than me."

Sherlock turned wide, stricken, sad, grey eyes on Greg. "It's all right, Sherlock, he's just drunk. Don't take anything he says seriously right now." Greg tried to reassure him. "Take him home, make him drink a glass of water and take some paracetamol, then put him to bed and try to talk to him tomorrow afternoon when he's sober."

Sherlock nodded relief in his eyes. "I remember from last time," he told Greg.

"Good. I'll phone you two tomorrow evening. See how you are."

Sherlock nodded and pulled John from the wall.

"Sh'lock? What're you doin' here? Why're you here?" John slurred out and leaned against Sherlock. Greg shook his head and headed back towards the Yard and his car. They'd fix this mess. They always did.


	3. Resolution

**Disclaimer: Not mine…still.**

"Christ," John hissed as he opened his eyes only too quickly squeeze them shut again as the light from the window assaulted them. "What the Hell?"

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered from beside him. "I forgot about the curtains."

"Oh," John sunk back into the pillows. "How'd I get home? I don't remember much after I texted Greg to meet me at The White Stag."

"I came and collected you and brought you home," Sherlock slowly sat up and moved off the bed. John swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. "Would you rather sleep some more or do you want some toast?" Sherlock was being very solicitous this morning and it worried John.

"I…" John swallowed again and then jumped from the bed and rushed to the bathroom to void the contents of his stomach.

"Here," Sherlock passed him a glass of water and two tablets when he'd finished. "Go back to bed. I'll wake you later."

John took the water and the tablets and nodded weakly. He knew that he had something he needed to discuss with Sherlock but at the moment he was too ill to remember what it was.

Lying in their bed ten minutes later he remembered what it was and nearly groaned. He'd proved again exactly how useless he was. Feeling sorrier for himself than he had in his entire life he curled on his side and tried to muffle his tears in Sherlock's pillow.

Sherlock stood outside their bedroom door and listened as John sobbed into the pillows. How was he ever going to fix this colossal mistake?

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John woke that afternoon with a blazing headache and a stuffed up nose. He lay for a few moments simply listening and heard only complete silence in the flat. It didn't surprise him, not now, not after the row, not after all this time of being left behind. Sherlock had gone out, obviously. Sherlock was always going off somewhere without him anymore.

John weighed the merits of just going back to sleep and forgetting everything for a while against the merits of a cup of tea and an empty flat. Sleep nearly won but his stomach was growling in hunger and his bladder was insisting on being emptied, so he forced himself out of the bed and down the small hallway to the bathroom.

He winced at the stab of pain the bathroom light caused in his head but left it on as he took care of his business and shed his clothes with the thought that a hot shower might help the headache.

The shower did help his head but he still didn't know what to do about this situation with Sherlock. He knew he wouldn't leave no matter what and he wondered if that made him a masochist. Sherlock wasn't being malicious and John knew it, had known it from the beginning, from the first time Sherlock had run off and left him behind at the crime scene with the Pink Lady. Still, it hurt so much that Sherlock found him useless and worthless.

John opened the door to the bathroom and let some of the steam escape. He swiped a hand across the mirror with the intention of shaving and winced at the sight that met him. He'd never thought himself handsome but hung over and depressed he looked even worse than normal.

John decided that shaving could wait and that tea was for more important. He was actively not thinking about Sherlock. The other man would be back eventually. Back with his excitement and danger and rush. Back with all the things he was denying John now. John shook his head, he wasn't thinking about that. He could live without all of that but he couldn't survive without Sherlock so he would make the necessary sacrifice to keep his husband.

Still rubbing his hair with a towel to dry it he walked into the kitchen and headed for the tea kettle. There, on the counter to the side, were two steaming mugs and a note with his name.

_John,_

_ Come to the roof. Bring the tea. _

_ Sherlock_

John felt a stab of irritation. What if he didn't want to go up on the roof? What if he wanted to curl up in his chair and watch telly? But, Sherlock had made tea. Something that he never did. Never. Why had Sherlock made tea?

John pondered the mystery for a moment and took a sip of his tea. It was made just the way he liked it. Not altogether surprising considering who his husband was. Sherlock wasn't one to miss details, especially about John. And yet he'd missed a big one, hadn't he? He'd missed how unhappy John had become.

When John had first come home from the hospital he could understand and even agree with Sherlock's protectiveness. He'd been very weak and still on morphine for the pain. However by the time the Pink Case came around John was better. He'd gained his strength back and was beyond bored with sitting in the flat. But Sherlock hadn't stopped. He'd continued to shield John from everything.

John didn't like to think about what would happen when he gave in and allowed Sherlock to work without him though he couldn't stop himself. If things didn't change the future was bleak indeed. John would sink into obscurity and they would see each other only rarely. And then they'd have the meaningless conversations of two strangers sharing housing. One night, Greg would come and tell him that Sherlock hadn't been quite fast enough, or quite strong enough and John would be as alone physically as he already was mentally.

John's mobile phone beeped the alert for a text as he was truly, seriously contemplating ignoring Sherlock for the first time in his life. He pretended to ignore Sherlock a lot but he was always listening. Always knew where Sherlock was, even when he pointedly turned his head away from his arrogant husband.

_Stop moping and come to the roof, John._

_ -SWH_

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. Sherlock never put the W in his initials. He rarely introduced himself as Sherlock Watson-Holmes either though he made sure everyone knew John was Dr. John Watson-Holmes. Suddenly curious about this aberration he drained his cup of tea and set the mug on the counter then lifted Sherlock's mug and headed for the bedroom and the fire escape to the roof.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Why the roof, Sherlock?" John asked as soon as his head was above the wall. He knew Sherlock would hear him. The roof wasn't that big.

"Wanted a bit of privacy to talk to you," Sherlock said as he took the mug from John's hand and lead him to a set of patio chairs and a table near the chimney. "Where's your tea?"

"Drank it. Didn't want to chance those rusted stairs with no hands," John told him distractedly. Privacy? This was not going to go well. "The flat isn't private enough?"

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls flying. "Mycroft's got cameras in the flat."

John's felt his eyes widen. "Seriously? Why? And why haven't you removed them yet?"

Sherlock eyed him shrewdly. "They serve a purpose." He said simply. "And my brother isn't why I wanted to talk to you."

John sighed. "Well, out with it then," he swallowed. "Tell me what you wanted. I do need to go find another job today."

Sherlock looked rather startled at that. "What? Why?"

John sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face before leaning forward and propping his chin in his hands and his elbows on the table. "I told you Sarah fired me days ago, Sherlock. Did you delete that?"

"No," Sherlock growled. "I remember that! I meant why do you need a job anyway? It's not like you really need the money. You haven't touched what your parents and Father left you and the money from the army that you sent to me was put directly into your account and I haven't touched it. That's not even counting what I have. You, we have plenty to live on, John."

"Sherlock, that's not why I want to work," John tried to explain. "I like having something to do. I don't take to being bored any better than you do."

Sherlock nodded. "I know." His lips quirked up in a quick grin. "I've seen you bored." His grin faded. "I don't like it when you're in danger, John. I don't think that will ever stop now." He held up a silencing hand when John started to speak. "But it has been pointed out to me that you're in more danger away from me than you ever could be at my side."

John nodded. "True. And so are you, you know?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "I will try to stop running off without you." He promised. "I do trust you to have my back. I always have. No amount of time apart or rows is ever going to change that. I simply grew too used to having no one at my back."

John smiled at him and took the hand that was resting on the table in his own. "We shall have to learn the art of compromise."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm not all that accomplished in art, John. But I'll try."

"Good. Finish your tea. Then we'll go back to the flat and convince Mycroft to remove his cameras."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and stared at John. "How do you intend to do that?" He asked genuinely curious. "Mycroft can be even more stubborn than you."

John grinned, sudden and wicked. "I have my ways."

Sherlock caught on and his own wicked grin spread across his lips. He tossed back the last of his tea and held out a hand to his husband as he stood. "Brilliant."

Twenty minutes later Mycroft turned on the computer monitor that recorded events inside 221B Baker Street and his face turned green. "A!" He called out. "Have the cameras in 221B removed if you would."

"Yes sir." A answered and then switched on her own monitor. She suppressed her snickers at her boss and wished for some popcorn while she enjoyed the show.

**A/N: That's the end of "The Consequences", I know it's rather abrupt but seriously how did you expect it to end? They've known each other their whole lives arguments over things like protectiveness aren't ever going to be a serious problem they just needed time to cool down.**

**I tried to do a long drawn out explanation and resolution bit but Sherlock and John seemed to have other ideas, so this is it. However there is a fourth chapter. The smut. Let me know if you want it posted though I'm going out of town so it will be Wednesday or Thursday before I can post again. Thanks for reading.**


	4. Making Up

**Disclaimer: Nope, Moffat and Gatiss still won't enter negotiations with me. Darn it!**

**A/N: So this is the smut you've been waiting for. That's all this chapter is. It has nothing to do with any plot just some good old fashioned boy on boy action. If you don't like that kind of thing then don't read this chapter. Easy as pie. You flame me, I'll be unfailingly polite in my response to your review just to make you feel bad. And then I'll toast some marshmallows and let my kids eat them since I'm not a big fan of sweet stuff. You have been warned.**

Sherlock followed his husband down the rusty, rickety metal stairs of the fire escape. That had been easier than he'd thought it would be. John was always surprising. He'd forgiven him so easily though Sherlock figured that shouldn't be so surprising. John had always been quick to forgive Sherlock for nearly anything.

"Sherlock," John's voice floated through the bedroom window and Sherlock started realizing that he hadn't climbed through after his husband yet.

Foregoing grace for speed, Sherlock clambered through the bedroom window and then searched out his husband in the empty room. "John?" He hadn't been that far behind John had he?

"In the parlour, Sherlock," John's voice called to him.

Sherlock crossed the room and then leaned against the jamb of the door between the bedroom and parlour, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveyed his husband. John was already shedding one of his ridiculous jumpers and Sherlock appreciated the view.

Most people wouldn't find John handsome. He was short, there was no denying that. His nose was slightly too big and his ears too small and they stuck out a bit, but for Sherlock those imperfections only made him all the more appealing. Anyone who actually looked into John's eyes immediately trusted him. There was an aura around John that just pulled people in.

Lestrade had once called him cuddly; John had scowled at him but that only made Lestrade laugh until he caught a look at John's eyes. Joanne usually said he was adorable. John hated both of those but Sherlock never minded that other people never saw his husband the way he did. No one else knew the hard, delectable body buried beneath those jumpers.

Sherlock uncrossed his arms and took the three strides across the room to pull his husband, his heart, his sun and sky, his everything into his arms. "John," he said lowly.

John tilted his head up and light hazel, nearly blue, eyes met grey. "Sherlock," he answered just as quietly.

Sherlock lowered his head without any input from his brain and gently took John's lips with his. The gentleness didn't last long though.

All too soon, lips fought, teeth clashed and tongues dueled for dominance. Hands fisted in cloth and pulled, ripping fabric. Fingers clenched, feet stumbled, hips thrust. Wild, glorious.

Sherlock found himself pressed back against the wall beside their bedroom door, John's fingers fumbling at his belt by the time his brain rebooted. His own fingers were tangled in John's short hair. He untangled them and pressed his palms to John's cheeks, his long fingers tracing the outer shells of John's ears. "John."

Hazel eyes flicked up from Sherlock's belt and met greyish blue again. "Sherlock," John answered again. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. Finally the belt was free but John's fingers grabbed the tattered remains of Sherlock's shirt. At some point those same fingers had become frustrated and had simply pulled instead of undoing the buttons.

John tugged and Sherlock obligingly leaned down. "I am going to fuck you so hard," John muttered against his lips.

"Oh, God, yes," Sherlock groaned. It had been so long. John hadn't taken him since before he'd been shot. Sherlock had been worried he'd reinjure himself.

John's lips left Sherlock's and he grinned, that boyish, mischievous grin before nipping at Sherlock's chin with sharp, white teeth. John brushed aside the torn remnants of the shirt and attacked Sherlock's chest with lips and teeth and tongue and fingers.

Calloused fingers pulled and twisted at nipples until they were diamond hard. Teeth and lips and tongue sucked and bit at collarbones until they were dotted with bruises. John's lips pulled at Sherlock's nipple while one hand twisted the other nipple almost to the point of pain and the other hand popped the button and dragged at the zipper of Sherlock's trousers.

John took Sherlock's wrists in his hands and pressed them back against the wall. "Don't move them," he warned as he knelt down in front of Sherlock.

Steady hands made quick work of pulling Sherlock's trousers and pants off and tossing them across the room. Those same hands trailed up the outside of Sherlock's thighs as John dipped his tongue into Sherlock's bellybutton making the taller man quiver.

Sherlock's fingers scrabbled at the wall for purchase as his brain whited out. All there was in his entire world was the warmth of John's mouth on him and those devilish fingers caressing his trembling skin. "John," Sherlock moaned out as cool breath bathed his cock and lips pulled not so gently at the short curly dark hairs between his legs.

Then his cock was engulfed in warmth. John swallowed him down and sucked hard. "Oh, God," Sherlock moaned again. "Please, John, please."

Using the small portion of his brain not whited out by pleasure Sherlock opened eyes he hadn't been aware he'd closed and stared down at his husband. John's face was a picture of pleasure as his head bobbed. Of their own volition Sherlock's hands left the wall and embedded themselves in John's short blond hair.

Everything stopped. John released him with a soft pop.

Sherlock whined wordlessly before he could stop himself. "I told you not to move them, Sherlock," John told him in a hard voice.

"Please," Sherlock whimpered. "John…"

John only gave him a grin and stood up. John gave him a lingering look. "Beautiful." He whispered.

Sherlock lifted one trembling hand towards his husband but quick as a striking snake John's hands shot out and grabbed Sherlock's biceps pulling him off balance. Sherlock fell forward and John caught him. Spinning him around and pressing him against the wall with his chest and hips. "No."

The coarse fabric of John's jeans scratched at Sherlock's sensitive skin. The light scratching only drove Sherlock's lust higher. He loved it when John got dominating. It didn't happen often. Sherlock was normally in charge and he liked to be tender with his husband, he liked to take his time and keep John on the edge of madness for hours. But when John took over it was nearly always fast, hard and nearly brutal in intensity, just the way Sherlock liked it.

John stood on his toes so that his mouth was right next to Sherlock's ear. "You're going to scream before I'm finished with you. You will beg. You will cry out. Perhaps, if you're very lucky you will even sob with the pleasure. But Sherlock, you will scream for me." His voice was a soft growl that sent bolts of sensation throughout Sherlock.

John rocked back on his heels and pulled Sherlock backwards further into the parlour and over to the sofa. He spun Sherlock around to face it and pressed him down to his knees. "Lean against the sofa, Sherlock."

Sherlock did as he was told and leaned his chest onto the cushions. He placed his arms in front of him and then put his head on top of them leaving the back of his neck vulnerable. Behind him he heard John's muffled groan of appreciation and the rustle of cloth as John shed his clothes.

"Do you know what you do to me?" John asked, huskily.

"Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat. "The same thing you do to me."

A hand traced up his spine. "Really? That's convenient, isn't it?" The hand traced a line across the small of his back. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

That question conjured images in Sherlock's mind that had his muscles shuddering and his breath wheezing. Had it been possible he was sure he would have grown harder than he already was. "John…"

John huffed out a small laugh. "You have a good idea if that reaction was any indication. Spread your knees."

Sherlock once again did as bid and felt the whoosh of air as a cushion hit the floor between his spread legs. "I'm getting too old to do this without a cushion," John sighed.

"You're not old," Sherlock told him, his voice muffled in the sofa cushions. "And I notice I don't get a cushion."

A hard smack on his arse was his reward for that comment and he jumped at the pleasure coursing through him. "You like the pain." John told him as he knelt on the cushion. His fingers trailed over the spot where his hand had smacked. Sherlock knew that the skin was already pink. "So pretty," John breathed.

Sherlock swallowed hard.

"Soon," John said with dark promise. "Soon I'll paint your arse nice and red and hot. But not today. Today I have other plans."

Sherlock swallowed hard again as he felt John's hands spreading his cheeks apart. He knew what was coming and he also knew there was no way to brace himself for it. Cool air blew over his entrance and he shuddered.

"So pink," John breathed across his entrance. "So pretty." His tongue swept out and up from Sherlock's bollocks all the way to the base of his spine in one long, wet lick. Then swept back down to dance around the small hole. John's fingers tightened as Sherlock shivered. Without warning John's tongue plunged into Sherlock's entrance as far as it could go and Sherlock cried out.

John's thumbs spread him as wide as they could and he plunged his tongue in further. Wet, slurping sounds made a counterpoint to Sherlock's gasps and moans.

Sherlock could feel the wave approaching, just a little more. And then John stopped cold. "No! John, please." Sherlock whined.

John laughed again. "Patience." One hand left him to dig under the cushions on the sofa while the other stroked his back soothingly. "It's here somewhere," he muttered to himself. "Aha!" He crowed and pulled out a half full bottle of lube. "Found it." The hand disappeared from Sherlock's vision and the other one from his back.

"John," Sherlock's voice was warning.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said pleasantly.

Sherlock growled and then yelped as one cold, lube covered finger inserted itself inside him. "John," Sherlock said on a rush of air as that finger wiggled inside him.

"Expecting someone else then, Sherlock?" Two fingers speared into him and Sherlock lost the thread of the conversation. He pushed his hips back against those invading digits trying to get them further inside him. "Eager?" The fingers spread apart scissoring and spreading. Relaxing the muscles until John wriggled the third digit in. "Like that?" John's voice was awed as he watching his husband's body swallowing his fingers.

"John! I'm ready, please! Now!" Sherlock pushed back on those fingers but they weren't enough anymore.

John pulled his fingers from Sherlock with a lewd squelching sound. He leaned over Sherlock's back and braced himself with one hand on Sherlock shoulder, the head of his cock resting against Sherlock's entrance. "Ready, Sherlock?" He asked breathlessly.

Not waiting for an answer John started to push in but Sherlock didn't want slow and careful. He pushed back as hard as he could and then stars exploded behind his eyelids.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. He took a deep breath. "You okay?" He asked shakily. Part of him wanted to take the opportunity presented and just piston in and out of the soft white flesh encasing his cock but the larger part was more worried about hurting the one person in the world that meant everything to him.

"John," Sherlock's voice was muffled and as shaky as John's own. "Move. Now. Hard. Fast. I swear if you don't, I will take all of your jumpers and set fire to them in the kitchen."

John grinned. "If you insist." He pulled back and then pushed forward again giving Sherlock exactly what he wanted. One hand fumbled around in front of Sherlock until it found the hard column of flesh it was seeking. He gave it a good, long, hard pull as he slid forward into the heated depths of his husband's arse.

"John!" Sherlock yelled as John found that bundle of nerves that sent stars streaking past closed eyes and fire thrumming through his blood.

John gave half an instant's thought to drawing this out but Sherlock was already sweating and trembling and moaning with every breath. He made sure to slam into Sherlock's prostate with every thrust and it was only moments before Sherlock screamed his name again, clenched tight and decorated their sofa with his release. John only lasted for two more hard thrusts before he joined his husband in bliss.

Sherlock slumped forward as aftershocks quivered through him and was barely aware when John pulled out. He dimly noted John pulling him backwards and laying him out on the floor. "Cold." Sherlock mumbled as his heated skin met the floor.

Then he was warm as a blanket settled over him and John curled into his side. "Love you, John," Sherlock muttered into John's hair.

"Love you too."

**A/N: I know it's a few days late and that this chapter is longer than the others. But I've been out of town. For the length of this chapter I completely blame Sherlock. Let me know what you think.**


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